Insomnia

The mares are still dying in his sleep
Still infiltrating the most sacred of ideas
The blood has already blinded him
Everywhere he looks despondence
blankets his face

Adhesive glues affection
Voices and eyes are my protection
Veins in my arms will go to my grave
My brain won't stay the same.
Landscapes and blueprints,
planned in my mind,
will be wrinkled over time.
Childhood, senility, in-between,
can I call this my metamorphosis?

The metal chilled his flesh
It's features aren't foreign
He knew,
He saw,
He wept

Discretion laughs over the corpse
Envy swims in the blood
Process has evaporated